Tears of an Angel
by Maraudercat
Summary: Wiress Ling has survived the 48th Hunger Games. Now she must live with the consequences of her victory, the mental scarring and the terrible task of mentoring young children to their deaths. Sequel to Amazing Grace.
1. Chapter 1

DISCLAIMER: Anything you recognize belongs to Suzanne Collins and others who hold rights to the Hunger Games.

* * *

The sun is shining rare gold today, casting the carved stone letters into sharp relief as I walk along the rows of the dead. It's a walk that has become far too common in the last months, but every time I return home I feel I've paid a small part of the debt.

There is nothing living in District Three besides the people and a handful of stray dogs, cats, rats and some insects that roam the rubbish heaps for the few scraps that somehow get thrown out. A few have been showing themselves at the Victors' Village of late, now that my little brother Malcy roams about dropping crumbs outside.

Out here in the district cemetery the dead earth at least seems appropriate. Despite the heavy rains of the last three weeks there is still no sign of anything green creeping up from the cracked ground. Apart from me, the only color is the rare faded flower resting on a stone nameplate.

I've been making the walk every week with a handful of fresh blooms imported from District One. The unwanted remains of the weekly purchases by factory overseers and peacekeepers, they are still too expensive for anyone but a Victor. There are four graves I always visit, those I owe the most. The rest go wherever, a pretty name, a young age, a lonely corner as I wander.

I only have six left when I reach my second permanent stop. Grandma Tolsey, my mother's mother who taught us to sing and looked after us when our parents were busy at work or ill. Her grave is the least painful to visit as she passed some years back, an old woman, happy enough to go find Grandpa again. Her grave is in the block that belongs to our former residence area, nearly a mile from the Village. I drop another flower on a stone with a familiar surname to our old neighbours.

The next is still a recent wound, a stop on my walk for just these last two weeks. Wiran Ling, my little nephew who lasted only eleven days in the world before the sickness took him, coughing and hacking, to a tiny grave. Laney is still bedridden from the early birth and terrible illness, and Ezra has only been up and about these last few days. Both are heartbroken, especially since they were too sick to attend their own child's funeral, however brief the interment was.

My last stop is nearly half a mile on, through three more areas to the graves of those who work in the packaging factories. I drop another bright red flower on a stone that is scuffed and stained by mud splatter before I reach the last of my consistent stops. Stata Wash, Stuvek's older sister who I saw at my own reaping. I kept my final promise to my deceased district partner and visited her apartment three days after I returned, only to find her body in partial decay, a dried pool of blood on the floor by her slashed wrist. Her father's corpse was just as bad, mottled purple and green-gray from the illness that had finally killed him.

I was still fairly desensitized to death, so their lifeless bodies didn't send me into a state of panic at the time. They've been turning up in my nightmares often enough in the months since that I wish I'd taken up Ezra's offer to come with me. In a way I am almost glad that she did end it all and whenever I wake from one of those dreams I try to imagine them together, a happy family again.

The last flower goes to a girl named Bria, who would have been nine from the carved stone dates I brush clear of gray dust. I circle her stone and start the long walk back home, letting the golden light soak into my skin and humming gently to myself as I crunch along the dirt path. Malcy will be at school by now, Balia and Mother already on their way home from dropping him off. My sister got the day off school to see me away, but we all agreed that Malcy would be scared by the cameras and reporters and the last thing we needed was one of his tantrums. Father will be at work too, covering a shift for one of his sick friends. He still works part-time, bringing in a little money besides my Games winnings and, more importantly, still staying on the roster. If something happens to me they will be forced to move back to the old apartment and make do without my pension.

Pella and Ezra opted to stay in their own places, or our old place in Pella's case, still working their shifts as well. Both do microchip assembly, as do most in our old neighbourhood, and like it well enough. Ezra and Laney visited two or three nights a week until she became too heavy to walk, so it didn't feel like I'd lost my older brother.

The rest of us moved into the new house, revelling in the space and accessories now available to us. It means a longer walk for Balia to our old school as she wanted to keep her friends, and each area of the district tends to focus on a particular aspect of manufacture. Malcy started at the closer school about two months ago and seems to like it well enough. He's gotten better with communicating, and now speaks to myself, Ezra and mother unprompted maybe once or twice a week. He answers questions from all the family and, more importantly, his teacher about a quarter of the time, which is a massive improvement from six months ago, back when he first spoke to me.

According to Damia, my psychiatrist, he has a combination of brain damage from his birth and a touch of something called Outism. He's been making better progress than I have with his problems. Damia calls once or twice a week to check up on me and to go through the speech therapy exercises that will apparently help. I haven't noticed much improvement yet, though my family has gotten fairly good at deciphering half-finished sentences and obscure hand-waving gestures. Balia in particular can nearly always follow my train of thought, the same way she could always understand Malcy. To my surprise Malcon also seems to follow fairly easily when he's in one of his good moods. We both have messed up brains, so maybe that helps. Beetee too is good at guessing where I'm trying to get to, especially when we're talking shop.

I went back to my senior science and innovation classes for a week before giving up and retreating to Beetee's workshop instead, though Miss Tafter still sent along the assignments and final exams. I miss working with Julez a little, but he, like many others, seems half-scared of me and what I've become. The fact that he was dragged out by the media storm as my male school-friend probably didn't help, though there's never been anything like that between us. Some of the other boys started quoting things at him the second day when we were walking back from classes and after that he told me he was walking home alone. Once he and Laue graduated, both into the design rooms that I had always assumed would be my fate they had no time to see me anyway, though his mother Tereza has been up to the house a few times. The group of girls I stuck to the fringes of at school essentially cut all contact as well after the lunch I spent with Elecia and Amily was mostly awkward silences.

Instead I turned to the world of inanimate objects to find my solace. My Victor's house is right next-door to Beetee, whose workshop extends all the way to the fence. When I get back from the Victory Tour we're going to knock down the fence and extend my own workshop out to meet. I can't wait.

The Village comes in sight as the rows of gray stones thins and I pass by my first regular stop, where the yellow flower has already been blown several feet from where I left it and the petals have darkened from the chill air. The tributes' cemetery is essentially two neat lines of off-white stone markers surrounded by a low metal fence, with room for plenty more rows to come. Each marker has the name, dates of birth and death and Games number set in dark bronze. The older ones are more gray and grimy, and there are two tiny gaps in the right-hand row. You can't really notice my gap on the left yet, though it will be clear enough after a few more years of our district's children dying.

I replace the flower, though it will undoubtedly blow away again before I'm even on the train. Stuvek said that one of the things he liked most about the Capitol was the bright colors, so I always leave the brightest flower with him. I have a feeling that in a few years I'll run out of flowers before getting past here once I have tributes of my own to remember.

The front door of my house is open when I turn up the path, as is Beetee's one building down. The man who mentored me to 'victory' is standing in-between talking to one of my least favourite people.

They both turn when they hear my crunching footsteps on the gravel and I have a half-second of panic—_they've heard me and are going to chase me down_—until I notice Carmenius Fallow's hair. The electric blue that previously streaked the bleached white-blond is now the dominant color, criss-crossed with ripples of orange, purple and green. The effect is so ridiculous that I can't help laughing. Our esteemed escort shoots me a glare, but keeps at a safe distance.

He waits for me to reach Beetee's side before glowering down his nose and informing me in his most obnoxious tone, "Thankfully I have acquired a better position for the next Games as escort to District Four. No thanks to your poor interview and public presentation skills."

"I guess my…my…winning…didn't…didn't have…."

"Still can't speak properly? I thought you'd have fixed that by now."

He turns away, sneering and shaking his head, and I start after him until Beetee's hand clamps softly but firmly on my shoulder.

"Dido and your prep team are waiting inside. You should probably hurry, they want to film us in the workshop before we pack it all away onto the train."

I should, but I don't want to. I've gotten a little better these six months, to the point where I can read out something prewritten without dropping too many of my words. If I'm talking about my work I can occasionally get everything out, but Beetee follows well enough that it's often not worth trying.

I can hear my prep team chattering away at my mother as soon as I step through the door. Juliette spots me first and engulfs me in a hug then steps away with a torrent of apologies as she remembers belatedly that I don't like being choked in. Then she spots my fingernails, rough and cracked and stained with grease from last night's playing in the shed. There's a new burn across my left knuckles where a bad hand tremor caused me to drop the soldering iron. Six months of breathing smog and ash has renewed the gray tinge to my skin. All disasters of the highest calamity apparently as I'm dragged upstairs to be made presentable again.

The trio take over my bathroom and bedroom, scrubbing and snipping, though I'm able to skip the painful waxing treatment. Lorcan cuts my hair back to the length I wore it in the arena, muttering about greasy snarls and split ends. The sunburn I took in the arena enhanced the gold tinge for a few months, but it's all faded now so Marius rubs some foul-smelling cream in instead.

I haven't put back on much of the weight I lost in the Arena, so when I finally find myself in front of a mirror, I look just like the half-crazy girl who mounted the stage six months ago to be crowned. Instinctively my hands go to my right chest, just below my breasts where the scar should be. I can feel it there on the inside but the surface is smooth and unblemished. It still unsettles me a little, and serves as a constant reminder that things aren't always as they appear.

"Wiress, it is good to see you again."

Dido sweeps through the door behind me on her four inch heels, chains jingling. She's added a familiar looking ring design to the charm necklace around her neck and a sweeping train of black material that trails behind her from the hall. Over her shoulder is a covered dress-bag, the first of many for the next two weeks.

My mother and sister come in as they are tightening the straps of the silky under-dress. Neither of them are used to seeing me all dolled up; Pella's always been the one who liked dressing in frills and skirts, most of which were inherited by Balia. She stands quietly in the corner watching the four strangers who have invaded her home to steal her big sister away again. At least this time we know that I'll come back.

I've taken Beetee's advice to heart and packed my bags with a tool kit, three of my smaller projects and several sketch pads for ideas. As a Victor, I'm supposed to have a talent to keep me occupied during the months outside the Games. About a month after I got back, someone from the Capitol (I highly doubt it was Carmenius) sent a list of suitable choices including drawing, singing and sculpture. I wrote back and told them I was opting for design and invention, and received a scathing reply about causing myself a negative feminine image.

We all had a good laugh over that one, and Beetee assured me they couldn't stop me choosing what I want, so now I have a whole load of sketches and drafts, two simple robots and a miniature remote-control hovercraft that I built during a particularly sleepless week some months back to be loaded onto the train. Before we leave, the reporters want to film a piece about my talent in the workshop, and if I'm quick I should be able to sneak in a few circuit boards to play with into my load as well.

Practicing my skills on smaller and smaller boards has helped with the tremor in my hands to the point that it's essentially under control when I remember to take the medications Damia prescribes and ships out. It also helps focus my mind, something I'm going to need on this trip.

"..iress?"

"Huh?"

A hand waves in front of my eyes and I realize I've zoned out again. Mother looks resignedly amused—she's been used to my mind wandering all my life—and lets her hand rest gently on my lower arm while they resume the dressing. I'm still fairly jumpy at unexpected contact, but we've found this sort of thing helps me stay in the present, especially when it's someone I'm close to. Balia takes my other hand whenever it's not claimed by one of the prep team and starts singing softly, a song about mountain valleys and lakes that I don't know. I close my eyes and let her voice soothe me as it always does.

Of all my family, Balia and Malcy are the only ones I haven't yet lashed out at. My protective instinct kicks in over self preservation I guess. I shake off the memories of clawing father's arm or bloodying Ezra's mouth and focus on the lilting words about green slopes dotted with blue flowers until the song ends. When I open my eyes again I'm mostly dressed and Mother and Balia are standing off to the side while Dido adds the final touches.

The thick gray material is soft to touch and has glints of silver when I turn it in the light. There's also silvery lace at the collar and when I look closely I can see they actually form a series of interlocking gear wheels stitched around my neck. The boots are flat-soled and cover my legs up to my knees. They feel uncomfortable at first, but after a few minutes I'm used to the strange compression of my calf and rather enjoying the warmth.

District Three, unlike the rest of Panem, has two seasons: hot and cold. We're just past those middling weeks of the season the rest of the nation calls fall, where the line between hot days and cold days varies from year to year. This year it was early, and we've had frosted dirt in the early mornings for the past fortnight. The victors' houses, unlike the apartment I grew up in, have proper heating and insulation like the factories, a wonderful luxury we discovered at the seasonal change.

"All done."

Balia leans over to squeeze my arm gently and I smile to let her know I'm here and look again at the mirror. The dark circles are covered, the golden skin is back, the chapped, bitten lips are smooth and pinkish-red. All set to go remind the districts of the children they lost so that I could be here.

As we head back downstairs, the front door sweeps aside to admit the camera crew into the house, followed by two reporters, who greet me enthusiastically and practically drag me into my workshop, where Beetee is waiting. He helped me set up when we first moved in here, and knows it as well as I do. We have the robots out for filming, and when I let the male reporter Imicus have a go at flying the toy hovercraft he gets all bouncy and cheerful, a child with a toy. Despite my trepidation, the people here are mostly friendly and interested, and as soon as I start talking about my work the tension flows out with my words. Until they start packing up, to be replaced by Capitol attendants, ready to load up a train carriage full of my toys and drawings. The time has come, and I don't want to leave my safe sanctuary. Or I wish I could bring my family along.

Mother steadies me to the doorway and Beetee stands behind me when we're jumped by the remaining swarm of reporters not ten steps from the house, ready to step in whenever my words fall away. I try to smile and answer the three-way interview until a wave of dizziness swamps me.

"Are you looking forward to the tour?"

No, I don't want to see the families of the dead.

"Yes, I can't wait to…to…see…"

"To see the other districts. They are fascinating."

"How have you been spending your time since your victory?"

Trying not to get caught in nightmares.

"I've been working on…on…my…"

"Wiress is a most talented and innovative student of design and invention. You'll have a chance to see some of her work over the next two weeks."

"What does your family think of your chosen talent?"

My family would have been surprised if I chose to spend my life doing anything else.

"They…I've always been…making…"

"Wiress has been involved with this sort of work since her early schooling, and her family are most proud of her genius."

The faces and their microphones and cameras begin to blur together, swirls of color against the drab gray and brown. Swirling, twisting, warping into monsters with fangs and dripping venom, glistening white and…and…

Beetee's arm catches me loosely around the shoulders as I start to drop and he single-handedly supports me as we push through the press of swirling color and sound to the car.

"Thank-you all, we really must be on our way. We'll see you in District Twelve in a couple of days."

He shoves me in and shuts the door to the flashes of light, and suddenly it's all muffled and dulled. The monsters are fading, fading away, and by the time the door opens again to admit my mentor and good friend I even have my breathing back under control.

"Ok?"

"Now."

He smiles and settles his slight frame into the smooth black leather before signalling to the driver.

"Where's…?"

"Carmenius and Dido are in the next car and your mother and sister behind them. Ezra should be meeting us at the station. One more mob to go and we'll be free for the next forty-eight hours."

If you count being stuck in a confined space with Carmenius _Shallow_ free.

"I know," he says, his wry grimace presumably matching my own. "He's still terrified of you though, and you can always escape to your room to 'practice your speeches'."

"I think I'll be…be…doing a…"

"A lot of practicing? You will actually need to; we both well know that you need to have it completely down-pat to keep the words flowing."

He looks at me sternly, wagging his finger and I try not to laugh. Then I see the all-too-familiar streets of my old neighbourhood and stop to watch the press of people, the sea of black hair and ashen skin, grey tinged and sickly and shivering in the cool air. The night shift workers out to do their shopping, spending or trading what little they have for bite-sized bread squares, easy to toast; tins of fruit or vegetable puree, necessary to prevent the rotting sicknesses; components to repair heaters or old blankets if they can't do that. At least my victory brought some joy with food.

The first parcel day Balia and Mother dragged me out to the nearest markets, not the one closest to our old house, but they all look the same anyway. Each market had a licenced distributor and when we arrived there were families queued up half way around the block, each getting ticked off to receive their packages.

All the alleyways and concrete squares were packed with happy faces as they feasted on sweet pastries and fresh fruit for the first time in fifteen years. Two large trucks were parked to one side of the market area and burly peacekeepers were actually being cheered as they carried up sacks of grains and tins of this and that, nothing that most people would normally be able to afford, right to the doors of each apartment.

As we walked through people recognized us, recognized me and came to thank me, to shake my hand. At first I flinched away, not wanting these strangers to crowd me, to touch me. Then I saw the little boy, no more than Malcy's age, munching happily on a crisp slice of apple, held up by arms so thin they looked like cabling wires. Not many in Three are truly starving, but there are always families here and there, people with joint aches or previous injuries that prevent them working in the factories. Children who spend hours cleaning scraps from production line floors or using their delicate fingers to separate tiny components just to earn enough to eat something that week. But not this year. This year they get to eat for free because I slew a monster in the Arena and became a monster myself. The children of District One don't need it like we do, though. It gives me some solace.

The flash of more cameras drags me back to the present. Usually the train station is full of workers packing the carriages with the outputs of our factories. They took us through in 6th grade to show us another of the unpleasant jobs available to us at adulthood. All of us agreed that sitting or even standing at a factory bench in a climate controlled building was better than carefully manhandling boxes of electronics and appliances in either sweltering heat or freezing cold depending on the time of year. The workers themselves all seemed to be crude and unkempt, larger on average than most and reeking of sweat.

Today there are a modest number of them about, cheerfully going about their business loading two nearby carriage trains, all wearing clean overalls and neatly trimmed hair. Three cameras are aimed towards them, showing the people of the Capitol how happy the districts are hard at work to sate their every need. I try not to roll my eyes while a camera might be filming.

"Ready?"

Beetee looks fairly pale himself as he schools his expression into something vaguely happy and slides open the door at my nod. I take a deep breath and follow.

Flash.

Murmuring noises.

Flash.

"Wiress, Wiress…"

"…District Three…"

Flash.

"…ewest Victor makes her…"

Flash. Flash.

Something grabs my arm and I clamp down on a shriek as I pull free. A white-clad peacekeeper steps between me and the over-eager reporter and blocks them off until we reach the side of the train. My family have beaten us here without the mob to push through and I let myself fall into Ezra's arms, remembering at the last second that he's still fairly weak from the illness. He's also no taller than me, and the weeks of sickness, sadness and worry have stripped him of what little weight he had.

"I'll be…back…"

"Soon," he finishes, and tousles my curls before settling me straight. I gave him back the ring I used for a district token and he holds it up now with his clenched fist and taps me lightly in the chest.

"Be strong ok? We'll be here when you get back."

I nod and he steps back so that Balia can launch herself for the cameras. She's grown a little in the last six months, maybe 5'2" with her bouncy curls piled up in a high ponytail. All five of us got some form of Mother's curls, unusual in our district where the sleek, straight black hair is so common. She burrows her head into my shoulder and squeezes my ribs so hard that for a second I start to slip into panic.

"I'll be….ok," I force out and she smiles and jokingly tells me to bring her presents from everywhere and tweaks my hair, the very image of a precious little sister. Finally my Mother wraps me up, though she's no taller than Balia and whispers "Be brave."

"I…I will."

Then we're on-board the train, zipping away to far off-places that my family's arms and my sister's songs can't reach.


	2. Chapter 2

Urk. RL sucks sometimes.

* * *

I barricade myself in my room until a Capitol server taps on the door and tells me dinner is ready. The Games trains are mostly so smooth that it's still possible to do fine work, and I put down my tools with a sigh. The others are already seated by the time I reach the dining cart, and I smile gratefully at Beetee and Dido as I take the empty chair between them. Carmenius ignores me, staring out the windows with a sneer as he dunks a bread roll into the steaming orange soup.

I eat in silence, letting the others' conversations wash over my head while we feast on pumpkin soup, a spicy green salad and roasted duck with potatoes in a creamy cheese sauce. I'm savouring the last strawberries from the cream and jelly dessert when Beetee turns to me and says, "We'll be stopping for fuel soon. If you like I can speak to the engineers about having a look at the train's internals."

My smiling acceptance is cut off by Carmenius's scowl and abrupt reply. "She's not allowed off the train. Neither are you, even when stopped. That's the rules."

Beetee waits until Carmenius looks back to his plate before rolling his eyes.

"Yes, of course. That won't be a problem since the parts of interest are _internal_, and therefore viewable from _inside_ the train."

This surprises me a little; I would've thought the engines at least would be externally accessed. Then I catch his wink and hide a smile behind a gulp of apple juice.

"Would you like to come too?" Beetee asks with a smirk, and I feel the juice catch in the back of my throat as I hold down a laugh. "You might actually learn something worthwhile."

"Like hell."

He stalks off towards his own compartment, drink in hand, and I feel the tension in the room drop a few barr. I choke down the mouthful of drink in time to see Beetee quirk an eyebrow at Dido, whose face shows her usual bland mask, though her eyes glint with suppressed mirth.

"I too shall decline a lecture in locomotive engineering. I doubt you will be bothered now, though I would advise not being too obvious about it. You are, after all, supposed to remain on the train."

With that she leaves us be, and good as his word, as soon as the gentle thrumming changes pitch Beetee leads the way to the front where the two drivers spend the half-hour refuel showing us the pristine engines and, when I ask, the stabilizers. Both drivers are from District Six, as are the three mechanics, and they're somewhat less scrupulous about rules and regulations than those from the Capitol.

When we start moving again, Barin, the off duty driver and two of the mechanics accept the invitation back to the dining cart, and we spend the next few hours discussing engine designs and weight to power rations until finally Beetee sends me to bed with a reminder that I need to practice my lines.

I pull a face, but go as ordered and read through the notes that I memorized a week ago, but still need in front of me to stay fluent. It seems as long as my brain is routing through the visual pathway it skips over whatever connections got destroyed by the dreadful white flowers that nearly killed me in the Arena. I still have regular nightmares about the terrifying paralysis that they caused, the hours of lying sweating and burning in the sun until the ants came. The fiery agony of their bites seeping through my immobilized limbs until Beetee found a way to send me the antidote.

He explained to me why it had taken so long to send that precious bottle not long after we got back, and after hearing his reasons I almost felt bad about mentally cursing him in the Arena. Once I learned that the flowers were only supposed to knock down a tribute for an hour or so, and that my direct inhalation of the pollen was unexpected and unplanned for, his waiting for me to recover on my own made perfect sense. Even after he realized that I wasn't getting better and that I was directly in the path of the ant swarm that killed another tribute only a few days before, it still took him time to calculate a rough necessary dosage and convince the Gamemakers to pour some on the parachute itself immediately before sending it into the Arena.

Even that had required Plutarch Heavensbee's political clout, the young man representing his father, who had been my main sponsor. I had been shocked when I learned the actual sum of money they had provided to keep me alive, but both Heavensbee's had informed me at the victory banquet that they considered it a worthwhile investment to keep my intelligence alive. Where they could use it to further their business where necessary, just as they use Beetee's brilliance. He had initially become indebted to them trying to save his second tribute, who, in another year might have done alright. The Careers often target the tributes from the recent victorious non-Career districts, regardless of their actual potential, and even with a year's gap poor Teac was near the top of their list.

Beetee's victory set another mark of hatred in the Career districts' minds as he was the start of their longest dry streak, six non-Career victors in a row. Even before they started banding together Districts One, Two and Four never went so long between winners as their relative wealth and professions generally provided stronger tributes anyway.

The train jolts me from my meandering thoughts and I run once more through the words I will regurgitate in each district for the next few weeks before slipping off the dress in favour of silk purple pyjamas and crawling into bed, trying not to think of crawling insects while I slowly drift off.

-xXx-

I don't dream of ants swarming my body. Instead I dream of Stuvek, my ill-fated district partner_. _

_I'm lost in the maze, only instead of thorny green hedges the walls are made of gigantic gravestones, each one bearing the names and faces of the dead. I can't find my way, but he appears and promises to lead me out. No, to lead me home and I take his hand and follow, trying to ignore the flashes of color as we pass. Jasper, spewing blood from his mouth, and from the gaping wound I made in his neck. Little Sparrow, mouthing his sing-song rhymes as he drags the spear out of his chest and waves it above his head. Francis, hobbling about on the leg I broke with my traps; Junis, the knife-hilt standing out the back of her head while her torso morphs into a giant spider. _

_We're running now, down the white stone corridors, past the twists and turns full of monsters. On my left I see three girls torturing Janey Wallace to death. Further on the right Stata Wash's bloodless visage stares at me, holding back a sob. Little Wiran coughs and screams for me to help him, but we're swept away by a river of blood, drowning, choking to a dead end. The stone marker has my name on it, my face, the spear buried in my chest while Jasper leans over me, pinning me down. I'm trapped, I can't move, can't breathe, CAN'T-_

I hit the floor hard, the sheets that restrained my movement slithering down to cover me while I regain my breath. When I finally force myself upright a wave of pain washes across my face and I wipe my hand across my mouth and nose. They come away damp and sticky, just like Felton's blood that first night in the Arena. I bite down on my lip to stop myself shrieking and cry out anyway when the blood trickles into my mouth and down my throat.

Luckily I must pass out because the next thing I know Beetee is peering into my face. My aching, throbbing face. I groan and feel a slight pressure on my arms.

"Wiress, can you hear me? Wiress?"

It's fuzzy and distant and suddenly the world swims into focus again.

"Beetee? I ….blood….river….maze…"

His face relaxes and the pressure on my arms tightens briefly and releases.

"Bad dreams?"

I nod and wince as the throbbing doubles. A hand appears beside me holding two white pills and a glass of water. I follow the outstretched hand up a white sleeve to a bland, expressionless face.

"Painkillers," Beetee confirms. I reach out and take them. The man helps hold the glass up to my lips so I can drink without spilling it. My hands are shaking again, from the shock and the dose of my own medication that I forgot to take last night after dinner.

Belatedly I remember that my meds are supposed to help with sleeping too. I glance over to the table where the box rests. Beetee shoots me a reproving look when he follows my eye-line and hauls himself up from the crouch beside my bed to fetch them.

"They don't do you any good in the packaging you know."

I do know. I just "forget sometimes."

I grimace at the bitter taste as I swallow my morning dose and he pulls a face back.

"When we get home I'll make you an alarm to remind you. String it around your neck like that ring, where you won't lose it."

I pretend to glare at him. "I could…could…make…one….if….if I..."

He looks pointedly at the toolkit and components strewn across the bench top, then steps outside when the all-too-familiar nasal whine announces Carmenius' presence.

I jump when the door shuts without warning and belatedly remember the Capitol attendant when he steps forwards again, this time with a cloth and bowl. He waves the cloth at me and tilts his head and I stare at him for a few seconds before I realise he's an Avox. He mimes a rubbing motion and I smile and wave him forward to clean the blood off my face, forcing myself not to flinch when his fingers brush against my cheek.

My stomach rumbles as he finishes up, but I don't really want to deal with Carmenius this morning. The Avox looks at me and mimes eating. I start to shake my head but he taps my table then his own chest and hurries out the door. Through the brief opening I can hear Beetee's nervous commentary being overridden by Carmenius' pronounced whingeing.

"…an embarrassment if she doesn't…

"…can't help it and you…"

"…I won't be held responsible…"

"…actions aren't improving the situation…"

The door snicks shut and I release the breath I was unconsciously holding. Of course Carmenius blames me for…everything. As though he did me the biggest favour in the world by being our Escort and I barely paid it back by winning the Games and promoting him to pre-eminence. If only the new escort had taken over now rather than waiting for the next Games. There's no guarantee the new man or woman will be any better but I'm fairly sure they can't be worse.

In an attempt to distract myself I move over to the bench and start sorting through my box of components, picking out the bits I would need to make a small timer. I've realized that I don't have anything I could use for a speaker when the door slides back open to reveal the Avox with a tray of cereal, pancakes and syrup, a bowl of fruit and a large pitcher of apple juice all for me.

"Thank…you."

He smiles in return and steps back out, leaving me to my breakfast and my work. I sketch out several ideas in my notebook while I eat, grimacing every time I manage to drip juice or syrup on the crisp white pages. I've barely finished when a brief rap on my door is followed by Lorcan, who tells me that we're only two hours out from District Twelve and that I'd better start getting ready. Or prepare myself to be got ready, as Juliette bounds in after him, gives a muffled shriek of horror when she sees blotches of blood and syrup on my face and pen ink on my hands where I started doodling.

I let myself drift away as they begin the now-familiar routines of scrubbing me down in the modified shower, brushing out my hair, and bundling me into whatever outfit has been deemed worthy for the poorest of the Districts, poorer even than my own.

Marius arrives to apply 'minimal' makeup, by which he only takes half an hour to properly accent my pointed, dull face. I can feel the train starting to slow as he tidies up his powders and brushes, chattering away all the while about this fashion icon and that magazine article and did I hear about the dramatic season ending of _Swept Away_?

It's not until I'm released that I realize Dido hasn't made her usual appearance, nor is she waiting with Beetee and Carmenius near the doors, ready to make our dramatic exit.

Beetee notices my confused glance around and reaches out to steady my arm, murmuring "Interview. The Capitol fashionistas have been at her for the last four hours by video conference. She'll be here soon."

"And if not, she can always catch up later," Carmenius adds with a sniff. "It's not like _she's_ the important one here."

I don't take the bait.

The train rolls to a stop at a dreary platform filled with dark-haired people, and for a moment when we step out to faint cheers and applause I think I'm back home already. Then the smell hits me, the smell of fresh living things that I knew from the arena, mingled with something tantalizingly similar to the smog back home, but somehow different. Fresher, though still unpleasant.

The small crowd moves in slightly to get a better look at the reigning Victor, and my familiarity is shattered. Most of them are my height or taller, the men noticeably taller than the women. In our district there's little difference in height and build between the genders, both topping out around 5'4"-5'6". Here more than half the men are pushing towards six feet tall, and while the dark hair remains, their skin tone is more a motor oil brown than our sickly gray-gold. Towards the centre of the group, the people become substantially taller and more rounded, lighter haired and lighter skinned. Wherever we go there is always the merchant class it seems, wealthy in comparison to the mere workers.

The mayor, a gray-haired woman with a too-wide smile, and her eldest son greet us formally, welcoming us to their humble district. I'm not sure whether I'm supposed to reply, but it doesn't matter as we're packed off into cars to take us first on a tour of the coal mines and town, then to the Justice Building, where I'll have to force out the speech I've spent the last few days thoroughly memorizing.

The drive to the town centre is a short one, this district being much more compact and centralized. On both sides, in the gaps between houses I can see a great metal fence running, twice the height of a person with bright yellow signs to warn of the voltage. Beyond that is green. Green and brown and orange and red, falling leaves in heaps of color. Color that spreads under the fence, in-between the houses and into a wide open field. So much green, so much life. How different it must be for these people to spend their days surrounded by living things.

The tour of the mines takes all of an hour. The man who steers us around has a craggy face and hands stained black by coal dust. The words have a practiced tone to them; maybe he teaches the school kids like the shift overseers who take groups around the factories.

The only color in the mines comes in the form of a row of bird-cages, each bearing a bright yellow bird that chirps away sweetly.

"Canaries," our guide says with a twisted smile. "Good for telling when there's gas leaks in the shafts."

"Do they start…"

"Start singing if they smell gas?" Beetee finishes for me, and sounding curious in his own right. This earns another grizzled smirk as the man replies.

"Nah, it's when they stop singing that we know. Gas kills 'em, see. When the chirping stops it's time to get out. These birds save lives every year."

Saving lives at the cost of their own. That sounds familiar. Suddenly the walls seem very close and the darkness begins looming in. Apparently this isn't an uncommon reaction to being underground and our guide quickly takes us back up to the surface.

The ceremony isn't scheduled to start until one in the afternoon when the day's mine shifts are finished early. Apparently school is out for the day so that the whole district can be here. As a result I have a little time to wander in the shops with Beetee and a pair of Peacekeepers a few paces back to keep the small crowds of shop-keepers and their children from bothering us.

It seems strange not to find anywhere selling electronic bits and pieces, and my hope at finding the components for the alarm I was going to make fades as we wander through a clothes shop, shoe-makers and a small hardware store that has nothing more advanced than pliers and saws.

The enticing smells of the bakery lure us both, and Beetee purchases a stack of cookies filled with dried fruit and nuts that are fresh baked and taste so much better than the packaged rolls of dough we occasionally had at home.

Two of the cookies go to the baker's sons when he isn't looking, both boys old enough to be working on their day off school, but young enough to show delight at the unexpected treat. The next shop down sells writing and drawing materials, cheap, simple jewellery and glassware all bundled together. When I ask, the old man out the back lets me watch him blowing a bottle while a boy around my age hefts a box full of them and slips out the back door.

I take the opportunity to purchase a small blank sketch-pad and pens, and draw the blowing tube he used before Beetee nudges me on. We ignore the butchers and fruit and vegetable seller, and I'm debating whether to just sit somewhere and keep sketching until it's time to prepare when a flap of wings catches my attention. Two birds, black and white land on the roof of the next store down, where the boy we just saw leave is handing over the assorted jars to a white-haired man wearing an apron.

On the porch a trio of girls are sitting together with a canary just like the ones in the mines. Rescued, perhaps, from its cruel fate by these merchant kids who can afford it. The bird certainly seems happy enough, whistling out trills of notes which are soon picked up by the larger birds on the roof-top. The two men look up as we approach and the older man smiles when he recognizes us.

"Alder Keyton, if you're wanting any herbs or the sort. 'Course I can't blame you if you're just here to hear our mockingjays sing."

He points up to the birds who are still trilling the canary's whistle over and over.

"Aye, they'll sing anything back at you if they think it's pretty enough," he adds with a smile at the girls.

"Just ask Ruthie," the boy adds, nodding to the smallest of the girls, who looks around Balia's age. "She's got a friend down in the Seam who gets flocks singing right back at him. Ain't that right Ruthie?"

He winks and the girl blushes. Alder scowls at him. "That's enough of that Jordie Connell. Back to your father with you, boy. I've enough glass bottles to see me through to next week."

He turns back to us, still looking unhappy, but before we can continue the conversation a loud, nasal and all-too-familiar voice rings from the central town square a short distance back.

"_There_ you are. Honestly, I don't see why you had to go off wandering around this sty. Your stylist wants you back now to clean up whatever mess you've made of yourself this time. Well come on, we don't have all day."

Carmenius looks less than pleased to be dirtying his magenta leather boots with mud. I turn back to say goodbye to the friendly shop-keeper, but Carmenius' holler interrupts again.

"_Now_ Wiress. I mean it, no skulking around fiddling with this or that or we'll never get anything done."

I smile at Alder, share a sympathetic glance of disgust with Beetee and make my way across the square, letting my shoes sink a little into the soft earth. This earns me another sniff of disapproval as I draw near. I force myself to remember that this trip is the last time I'll ever have to deal with Carmenius, and don't retort.

Dido does want to tidy me up, and also gives me a disapproving stare when she spots the muddy splotches on my boots and the hem of my dress. This actually does make me feel a little guilty and I take the silent remonstration with a nod, reminding myself to watch out for puddles in future.

I'm kept indoors until it's time for the presentation, reading and re-reading the cards that contain my speech, even though I know it by heart. As long as I can trick my brain into thinking I'm reading, it won't mess up my words. Finally the call comes, and I step out onto the platform facing a sea of dark heads and the reaping comes rushing back. I panic for a moment when I can't see Balia's tear-stained face in the front row, can't see the gray concrete buildings chunking up the skyline as far as the eye can see.

When I see the man standing closest to the stage is an adult not some child waiting to be called to their death, and his wife beside him, and two younger children near Malcy's age I relax._ It's not the reaping, it's the Victory Tour. This is the audience, I'm speak….reading to the audience._

It takes me two tries to get the first word out, but once I start talking I spot a tall tree in the distance, keep my eyes fixed on it and let the words flow. The sound of applause wakes me from my semi-reverie, and I assume I've managed a suitable job based on Beetee's smile and nod.

Again I glance down to the front of the crowd, where that family of four catches my eye. A few steps closer to the stage than the rest of the audience, huddled together, all sharing the same mousey-brown hair as they stare up at me with resigned expressions. To the right a similar group huddles, though their looks are less sad and more angry. Two women and four children, dark haired and brown skinned. The oldest boy can't be more than twelve, but I see the resemblance to Tobias already. Of course I should have remembered the families of the tributes. We see them every year in our own district, forced to the front so they can be seen cheering for the person who quite possibly killed their loved ones. Or maybe it's a reminder to the Victors. Probably both.

If I wasn't already dreading District One I am now.

Thankfully my sudden shakiness and garbled words aren't an issue for the rest of the afternoon. I smile for the cameras as the Mayor presents me with a plaque, shake her hand and scurry inside back to the cool safety of an empty room.

There's no dinner function in Twelve; we're heading straight back to the train and on to District Eleven, where we will stay the night. I'm not looking forward to seeing the families there either, but at least I didn't kill their children.

The brief journey back to the station is a blur of colors and sounds and the fading stink of coal, where green and brown flashes of color and life continue all the way to District Eleven.


	3. Chapter 3

My gigantic pile of marking is done and I've finally managed to put down the new Pokemon game. Maybe I'll start writing again!

* * *

The first thing I notice at our approach to District Eleven is the giant fence, rearing higher even than the one in the last district. And unlike the last one, this one doesn't pretend to be protecting the people from the outside, not with rows of spikes along the top. They don't bother fencing us in at home; the barren and slightly radioactive wastelands spreading for a week's walk in every direction do that just fine.

Again like home and District Twelve, the people of Eleven have a distinctive look to them. Skin tones ranging from the pale brown of today's dress, _fawn,_ according to Juliette, through middling shades all the way to nearly black. As always the flash of fairer hair and skin that marks the merchant class congregate together, well away from the working rabble.

We're permitted a brief tour of a nearby fruit orchard, where the last crops of blueberries and strawberries are nearly done for the year, and then on to some bee-keepers who draw out solid blocks of wire mesh from humming boxes to collect the dripping honey.

After my last run-in with insects I stay well away, though Beetee steps in for a closer look at the smoke-pots they use to keep the bees tamed.

As Carmenius threatened, he refuses to let me wander through the town while we wait for the ceremony, instead confining me with the help of two Peacekeepers to a room to practice my lines as he felt yesterday's performance was _insincere_.

Beetee's still out somewhere, probably trying do re-design a more efficient smoke system, and I don't really feel like arguing so I do as I'm told until Dido appears to tidy me up again.

This time I pick the corner of a building to stare at while I deliver the words, trying not to let my eyes flit to the front of the crowd where the families will be. I almost make it through before I falter, first spotting Seeder and presumably her sister, a teenage boy and a little girl. All mourning poor Junis, though they don't have hatred in their eyes. I know Seeder killed more tributes in her Games than I did, so she definitely understands. Even so, I feel like I should be apologising.

I force myself to look left, to where whatever remaining family little Sparrow Harper has will undoubtedly be less restrained in their hatred of the girl who could easily have been their little boy standing here instead. A lone woman, gray haired and sharp faced, standing as stiff as the collar of her dress stares back, looking disinterested. There's a pin on her chest, a familiar symbol that crests several buildings back home, the same as in every district.

That the beautiful, charming, gilt-tongued Sparrow was a Community Home child surprises me greatly. Then again, he learned that cold-hearted resilience somewhere, and with his fair coloring he was probably the target of the other children more often than not.

The afternoon is spent in more preparation for tonight's dinner. Once I'm suitably bedecked in a swathe of purple and silver drapes Beetee takes me to a small room to introduce me to the District Eleven victors, though I'm not supposed to be formally meeting them until tonight.

I recognise Seeder and Chaff from my Games, and they both greet me with the easy air of old friends. The older man, whose white hair stands in stark contrast to his near-black skin is introduced as Alko Johnson. I'd put his age around sixty, and he moves with a stiff limp when he steps forward to shake my hand. Scars criss-cross his arms and a particularly savage line traces across his balding skull to the mangled left ear. I guess they cared less about prettying up the victors in the old days of the Games.

The fourth man is vaguely familiar, and introduces himself as Tolby Bartlett. Like Alko and Chaff his skin is a rich, deep brown. I'd put him around Beetee's age and the two seem friendly, immediately striking up a conversation about Beetee's afternoon beekeeping. Alko hobbles over to the side-board and struggles to pour himself a glass of something. This leaves me with the mentors of this district's tributes from my Games. Again, I feel like I should be apologizing for being here, but can't seem to find any suitable words.

Finally Seeder smiles and reaches her hand out slowly to my shoulder. "It's all right. We don't blame you."

I jump when a weight slaps down on the other shoulder. Chaff gives me an apologetic smile and adds, "Believe me girl, we understand. You will too soon enough. "

With that he wanders over to the side-board, reaching out with his one hand to help the older man with his drink. Still at a loss for words I glance around, catching Beetee's eye and he waves us over to their conversation.

"Wiress, we were just discussing the smokers they use for beekeeping, I was telling Tolby here that an automated system wouldn't be too hard to set up, or at least something with a bit more range and easier to control."

Before I can reply the door bangs open and our impromptu meeting is brought to an end by a series of officials who apparently require two hours to 'organize' our short walk to the dining room. Even worse, I'm side-tracked to a small office, where three reporters are waiting to speak to me about my impressions of the Victory Tour so far, and who are so excited that Carmenius generously provided them this opportunity to speak to me one on one.

I stumble through a few ragged sentences that they seem more than happy to finish for me, all the while thinking up the most painful way imaginable for our Escort to die. I've mentally reached the part where I'm dangling him by the ankles over a pit of acid when a fuming Beetee finds us and rescues me, citing dinner preparations and dragging me out of the room before they can protest.

"Sorry about that. I've had a word to Carmenius. He won't try it again, at least without speaking to you and me first."

"Does that mean I can't…can't…"

"You should probably try not to kill him," A voice says from behind as I trail off. I whirl to see Lorcan, one of my prep team members, all done up in an eye-popping lime green suit.

"You would disappoint so many people who wanted to do it themselves," he adds with a smirk, and I hear Beetee chuckle.

"Yes, well thankfully we're not going to have to deal with him again from next year. Assuming you are coming back?"

Lorcan nods to this and raises an imaginary glass. "Here's to the next Games."

Underneath the Capitol accent I'm pretty sure I can hear a note of sarcasm. The door behind us opens to release the reporters we just escaped. Lorcan glances from them to us, grimaces, and cuts in front of them with a congenial wave.

"Anyway," he says, stepping towards me and offering a hand, "Dido wanted me to fix your hair up so that it's not going to fall into your supper. I said I didn't think that band was enough to hold it up, and look, it's falling out already."

I let him lead me to another dressing room to complete the 'tidy-up' until they are gone.

"Dido's furious with him too, you know," he says as he picks invisible specks off my shoulders. "And she's a bad woman to cross. Not that Carmenius ever had any sense. My brother went to school with him—that's how I got the job actually—though Vander thinks he's an idiot too. A rich idiot, and a popular one now that he has a victor. It won't last once people remember how much of a…well, that's better."

He lightly brushes some more imaginary flecks away, then goes to the door, peering out cautiously.

"All clear," he says with a grin. "If you like I can walk you up to your room in case they jump you again."

I accept the offer and spend the remaining time chatting to Lorcan about the airbrush he uses for fancy designs. He lets me have a play on some scrap paper, and I decide I can probably build one of my own when I get back. A better one, which doesn't clog as easily and switches colors without having to change cartridges.

The dinner is fun, sitting between Beetee and their mayor, far enough away from Carmenius that I don't have to even pretend to be civil. Almost too soon we're back on the train, heading back west to District Ten.

-xXx-

Unlike the other places I've been Ten seems to have a more balanced mix of people spread over a much wider area. There's no tall fences as most people live on huge tracts of land to manage their animals. The main settlement is home to the abbatoirs, tanners, packing factories and a small collection of shops. A friendly man with Ten's typical drawling accent takes us out to one of the nearer farms, where people on horseback use cracking whips and long poles to keep a herd of cattle in line.

Several paddocks over a boy around my age uses high-pitched whistles to control a pair of thin dogs to round up his sheep and force them into a small enclosure. Our guide also offers to show us around the butchery and the leather-makers. I get one waft of the smell and decline.

It gives us time to have a quick peek in the shops, and to my delight the general store has an old, broken radio full of useful components that he cheerfully lets me take off his hands for a decent price. Beetee pretends to roll his eyes and summons an attendant to carry it back to the train, ignoring my protests that I want to play with it now.

Today's outfit is a pants and loose tunic-like shirt in a dusky pink color I despise. Juliette piles my hair up into an elaborate knot for the ceremony, where I again fail to avoid the glares of the tribute families at the front of the crowd. Anton had a mother and older sister, while pretty Starria got her looks from her father's bronzed skin and her mother's dark curls.

Three of the previous Victors from Ten are at the dinner, but they're seated on the other end of the table, past the mayor and his people, and I don't get a chance to speak to them before Carmenius hustles us back to the train. Beetee names them for me as Annibel Blake, Pelline Smith and Abram Talbot. The youngest is Pelline, who won over twenty years ago, though I think they've had one more since.

The main town of Nine is as drab and dreary as home, rows and rows of gray concrete factories and store-houses manned by distinctly featured people. Their District processes a lot of the food from Eleven, Ten and Four, as well as growing their own grain to supplement that of Eleven. Fields and fields of golden-brown grasses spread in all directions, and there's a decent sized river that runs through the middle of the District and alongside the town, dotted along the line with flour mills.

We're only here for the day, and when I step out onto the stage to give my memorized speech I notice a distinct splitting of the ethnic groups. The field workers are mostly fair skinned, with red or brown hair. They're all grouped on the left-hand side of the square. In the middle stands the shop-keepers and millers, the overseers of factories and fields. Fair skinned, mostly lighter haired, as usual. To the right stand the factory workers themselves, all brown skinned, dark haired and hook-nosed. A three-way split instead of two.

Tarragon's family are clearly part of the field-workers group. Morris had the dark features of the factory people. Both families glare at one-another as much as they do at me. I briefly get to meet the four Victors from Nine before we leave. The two older women Breeana and Lindsey are quiet but friendly. It takes me a few minutes to recognize Breeana as the only other thirteen-year-old victor, who won her Games by falling half-way down a crevasse and outlasting the remaining tributes, though she was dehydrated and fever-delirious from infected wounds when they dragged her up.

Robin Miller is their only male victor, one of a run of non-Careers around the same time as Beetee. The last girl, Whisper Stalk, is my age, sly and silent. She strangled six tributes including both Career girls to claim her throne two years ago, smiling all the while.

I barricade myself in my room on the train, taking apart the radio and re-wiring the little speaker to make an alarm. I don't have a timer to attach to it, but it's a start.

-xXx-

District Eight is quite reminiscent of home; rows and rows of factories, sitting lower in a dip so that the smog layer doesn't quite cover the shops, town square and Victors Village. The ethnic split appears to be as unpronounced here as in District Ten. Everyone looks equally miserable and underfed, and they all share the similar grayed skin tone to our district, a mark of the smog we breathe day in and out.

Eight has only ever had two Victors, both of whom get horribly drunk at the dinner. Boyd looks to be in his thirties, with dark hair and fat stomach that protrudes from under his styled suit. Wilfram is older, mousey hair and scraggly beard going gray where it's not stained by bits of jelly or custard. Boyd keeps refilling my glass with the sweet, nutty-flavored drink and I take it at first because he's telling me all about Felton's wonderful drawings. I keep drinking to drown out the memories of Felton's sticky blood on my hands and soon I'm giggling at his outrageous stories of monsters made of fabric scraps hidden under the bed.

I don't come close to matching their number of drinks, but by the end of the night I've had enough to feel giddy and my head swirls when I try to stand. Beetee, who was seated four places down on their far side shoots the pair a glower as he helps me keep my feet for the walk to the car. I think I tell him he's amazing and that his glasses are sparkly. I'm not sure what else happens between then and waking up with a pounding headache and the desire to empty my stomach into the conveniently placed bucket by my bed.

The train gives a slight lurch and my stomach heaves again. A pair of hands reaches down for the bucket as I finish retching and I jerk backwards, nearly dropping it on myself. The Avox is more dexterous and carries it away, passing a ruefully smiling Beetee in the doorway.

"How are you feeling?"

"Like….like…." I can't even think of a word to describe it.

The train lurches again and I clap a hand over my mouth. Nothing comes out but the pounding in my head doubles and I'm suddenly desperately thirsty. I fumble for the water bottle that I usually keep by my bedside and find it waving in front of my face, a pair of concerned dark eyes with silver-rimmed glasses right behind it.

The light catches on them, glinting in my eyes and I wince.

"They're still…sparkly," I tell him as I take the water, remembering only to take small swallows.

He frowns, so I lean forward and tap the bridge of his glasses. He laughs.

"You remember saying that? I didn't think you would." He frowns again. "What else do you remember?"

What else do I remember?

"I wasn't as..as…bad as…as…"

"Boyd and Wilf? If you'd drunk that much I'd be worried that you wouldn't wake up before we reached District Seven."

It's a full day and a half train ride to District Seven. I wonder now if it's the morning after or the morning after that. Beetee catches my look towards the clock and says, "Half-past twelve. Lunchtime, if I thought you were likely to want to eat anything. We still have another night yet."

Good. I don't think I feel up to getting out of bed today.

"Well," he says as he rises from the crouch beside my bed, pushing the silver rims back up his short nose. "It had to happen sometime I guess. Better in one of the Districts than in the Capitol. If you're not up by dinner I'll send someone. Drink water. Lots of water. If you need me I'll be in my room."

He reaches the door still smiling and shaking his head, and I have to ask, "Beetee? Did I say….you…you were…a…amazing?"

The smile turns serious as he straightens his glasses again. "You remember that too? What else do you remember?"

"Nothing," I say honestly. Now I'm worried. What else did I say?

I drift back asleep trying to remember, but all I can find is flashing lights, the car lights maybe, and an arm around my shoulders. When I wake I'm even thirstier than before. I roll back towards the table to find a row of water bottles beside my alarm clock and sketch-pad. Nice to know someone cares.

The clock reads half-past five, and after finishing the second bottle my body gives me another reason to get up. Once I'm on my feet I decide to attempt dinner and find something comfortable to wear in the drawers.

Dido and Lorcan are huddled over the table discussing pictures when I enter. They both look up when the door clicks and I know from my stylist's face I'm in trouble.

"Wiress. Will you join us?"

It's not a question. I take the seat beside her. On her left Lorcan turns his head and gives a suspiciously false sounding cough.

I try to take the lecture about overindulgence in good grace; I know I won't be letting myself do this again anytime soon, so it's no problem to promise to limit my intake to one or two glasses in future.

I manage dinner without feeling queasy and turn in for an early night. When I wake the headache is gone, and I practically spring from the bed until I remember. Another day, another speech, another pair of families glaring at me while I speak empty words at whatever feature I can fix my eyes on in the distance.

The boy from Seven had been a real contender until he pushed his luck at the Cornucopia. He was big, strong and determined, but no match for District Two. Five boys ranging in age from around twelve to twenty all glower while applauding their mayor's presentation of a pinecone-shaped plaque. Seven's girl stood as much chance as my own district partner, and her family only look sad not angry.

I do enjoy being back around living things, the smell of trees on the wind, though many of them are dead-looking and coated in snow. Dido has me wrapped up in a puffy-sleeved jacket, fur-lined pants and an awful fluorescent orange fleecy head wrap that I ditch as soon as I get the chance.

Instead of just the dinner, District Seven put on something of a carnival for our visit, with loggers vying alone or in teams in wood-cutting races, wielding long saws or axes with vicious intent. Stalls and stands ring the square, offering carved trinkets of all sizes and shapes. I buy a butterfly-shaped one for Balia, and a little pinecone for Malcy, and take them out of my pocket to sniff the wonderful fresh smell until Carmenius snidely laughs at me.

At the dinner we sit outside ringed by coal braziers and feast on roast boar and fresh fish from the river, collected by special permit according to the man next to me as I devour the offering. He turns out to be the mayor's nephew and rises with an apology to me after the main course to join in the axe-throwing dance that starts up in the middle of the square.

I don't mind as it gives me a chance to meet the two victors. Hans Mayer is white-haired, mostly deaf, and mutters strange words under his breath. Olivia Campbell looks around my mother's age and seems friendly enough, though her reactions betray her when a stray axe flies near us from the dancers. She snatches it from the air and whirls, weapon raised high to defend against her attacker. After a few seconds a sheepish boy comes to collect it and she gives it back with a clip on the ear. When the waiters come past she grabs a glass of champagne and downs it, clenching the fine glass cup until her hands stop shaking. I guess we never really get over it.

District Six is just a short seven hours south of here, and I wake to find the train already stopped. According to my prep team, this means it's time to have another major scrub-down. Juliette tells me all about the whole collection of wooden carvings she bought and how jealous all her friends are going to be as she washes out my hair and rubs in some flower-scented oil.

Marius helps me into the copper and blue dress, then does my makeup for our tour around the transport district. I give my speech to a distant antenna, very deliberately not looking at Aleksander's younger brother and father. Wenda was another Community Home child, and as in Eleven, the woman who stands for her family looks bored by the whole affair. As though she's done it all before. Probably has. I know in Three they make the home children take out maximum tesserae to keep their food costs down.

We're on towards District Five by nightfall as it's all the way on the west coast. I spend the ride tinkering with my toys and snacking on whatever the Avox who makes up my room decides to bring me. Beetee checks in twice, staying the second time to chat about what I'm working on and our next destination.

"I think you'll like Five," he says with a nod that causes his glasses to slip down his nose. "The different power stations are all interesting in their own way, though we're going to the town so we won't get to see any of the coal-fired or solar ones. But they have wind, tidal, and of course nuclear power right by the main town as they require the most people to maintain."

He sounds like a schoolboy all excited about the annual assignment presentations in our senior science classes, though I have to agree they do sound interesting.

We arrive just after breakfast and step out into an absolute downpour at the station. Marius and two Capitol attendants hurry over with a large waterproof canvas that they spread over our heads until we reach the safety of the cars.

We're greeted at the Justice Building by a long-faced man who tells us that he'd planned to give us a tour of the various power stations, but because of the weather…

Beetee cuts him off by pointing out that the nuclear station is all inside, so we could go see that one at least. Carmenius steps in and says no, we're not going anywhere. For once Beetee tells him to shove it and directs the guide to take us back out in the cars. I listen to them chatting like old friends and try to forget the dangerous cold glimmer that danced in Beetee's eyes when he rounded on Carmenius. It's so easy to forget that every one of us is a killer at heart.

The tour of the nearest power station successfully distracts me. Our guide won't allow me to see the full schematics, but does sit down and draw out the basic process of fuel activation to fission for me. We get to see the glowing blue pool, and the great turbines which are turned by the steam from boiling water. All just one big kettle really.

We get a glimpse at one of the tidal stations as well on the drive back, and our guide assures us that the people who work or live near there swim as well as anyone in District Four.

"Better even," he adds with a grin as we roll past the great tubes lining the cliff and bay.

"Our lot do all their swimming by the cliffs, have to be more careful they're not washed into the rocks or the…"

He trails off at my wince at the imagery of death by some turbine blade. We do the usual routine with the speech and dinner. The stage where I give my victor's address is sheltered from the pouring rain. The square is not, and I bet being forced to stand dripping, cold and miserable while I stutter through my words doesn't make the people of Five like me any more than they might otherwise.

I spend the dinner seated between Five's two most recent victors, and quickly give up trying to interact with surly Warrick James, intent only on his wine and food in favour of the much friendlier Diya Patel. She won her games ten years ago by smarts as well, and it quickly becomes obvious just how intelligent she is. Beetee's seated on her other side and we spend the entire dinner discussing the workings of the power stations and some of our own projects of interest.

When we chance a break in the weather to get back to the trains she shakes my hand warmly and promises to see me at the Games in six months time. I try not to let my smile falter; she's just being friendly, but I'd managed to push away the knowledge that I was mentoring some poor girl to her death to the back of my mind.

The storm picks up again as we roll out south and I spend the night awake, listening to the pinging patter of water falling on the roof of the carriage and the gentle snicker-snack of us rolling over the tracks, trying to get the image of some brute running Balia through out of my head.


End file.
